


Coldwave tumblr ficlets

by DarlingArthur



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, a la neil gaiman, alternate universe - American Gods
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 04:55:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8876821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarlingArthur/pseuds/DarlingArthur
Summary: a collection of coldwave ficlets or wips crossposted from my tumblr.





	

**Author's Note:**

> American Gods/Old Gods AU 
> 
> Mick is the God of disasters, criminals, travelers, loyalty, hearth and wild fires or was.  
> Len is the God of hardwork come to fruition, survivors, cold, ice, and chance.
> 
> once again I blame mickrrory over on tumblr for all of this. 
> 
> if you want you can find me over @ johncuntstantine on tumblr

He was born with no mother, a strange beginning but his nonetheless, and strange was something that would color his life, so it only seemed right. He was born having crawled his way from the void, the ice and the cold of the complete dark. He’d begun as a flicker of thought in the consciousness of the world; his domain was the treacherous mountain heights, so close to the frozen heavens that the sight of them froze the breath from your lungs. 

And in his arrogance for six months of the year he encroached, as he ever would on the rest of the world, leeching heat and stealing lives into his pale hands, and as was the nature of the cold, he wanted, he wanted heat, he wanted noise, he wanted to break up the clinging silence that sat like snow on the branches burdened by the ever growing flurries. 

He was a god of hard work come to fruition, without the cold there would be no harvest, without his touch there would be no struggle, and those who struggle deserve that which they’ve fought so hard for, he was a just God, and he was a fickle one. 

God of chance he was the cracking ice beneath the feet of fisherman and he was the sudden snowstorm, he was the blessing of new growth through the ice, and he was the daisies, waiting, ever patiently beneath the surface ready to spring up at the first sign of sun. 

He doesn’t remember all his years, no one could, God or no, he remembers that first unbelievable feeling of power that had swirled within him like the ever going north wind and the riptide hiding below the surface of the ocean. 

He remembers what it felt like to have followers, prayers ghosting past his ears, trinkets left on altars built for him, he remembers crushing pearls and gold between his teeth and tasting honey on his tongue, he remembers freezing those who crossed him and he remembers the howling wind. He remembers a child with her eyes on a shiny golden hair pin as she walked past the shop window, every single day. He remembers the way she limped some days, or hobbled, how she unconsciously gripped her shoulder or wrist, and he remembers the way she’d all but snatched that pin from his hand and hid it away where she thought it’d never be found.

He remembers the way she’d smiled, and something in him told him, yes, she would be good.

So he knelt down in front of her, and offered his hand, not solemn or quiet, no, he smirked and he raised a brow, and he whispered to her a word that hadn’t been spoken in the world of man for more time than could be measured with a single human life. 

“Leo—Lenny?” Which. Go figure, yeah speech sure had changed hadn’t it? And as continued his life, with all it’s strangeness, even as a God.   
He was renamed by his first follower, renamed by the child with missing teeth and a savage glint in her eye, a shrewd survival instinct and a sharp spirit. And with it came an old part of him newly awakened, memories rose from slumber at the call of the child before him, wild brown hair in tangles and a line of dried blood across her forehead. 

Leonard Cassidy Snart, as far as names of the God’s went, was, well…certainly unique. 

He spent his next few years feeding off the belief of a little girl, and his first follower in millennia, Lisa Snart was a smart, cunning, survivor who worked too hard for too little gain for her father. Her father was what made her a survivor, no, he hadn’t helped her, hadn’t trained her, he was what she had survived. And when Leonard had let the cold and the ice claim Lewis one winter’s night he didn’t let him drift so far off that he felt a warm embrace when he died, he had worked hard to deserve such a foul end, and Len was fair to those who toiled. 

Lisa had cheered when he’d taken her on the road; picked her up in an old beat up truck he’d hotwired with sure fingers. He had never believed that hard work meant working for the money to barter with. His time learning wires and electricity and security systems was time and work well spent, and so he reaped the benefits.   
They lived abandoned building to abandoned building but he made sure she went to school, he provided for his followers and she would want for nothing, he was determined, and he was sure. 

-

He had been born from the flame, not a surprise in the least. 

He’d been born and bred of the fire, had it lining his bones and igniting his marrow into smoldering embers simply waiting to be breathed into life. He had a great many followers once, he knows, a dynamic God, he had little time for the patience that men preached, and he did as he pleased simply because he could. His altars were always abundant and overflowing with silks and gems, golds and wine, from devout believers and fearful townsfolk alike. 

All that was his was burned, an altar covered in melted gold and encrusted with diamonds. The fires never went out, whether they were meant for warmth or cooking, whether it was a wild fire eating the trees and leaping from crown to crown, nothing stopped him, and nothing stopped his. 

No laws would bind his people, and no jails would lock their jaws and still their hands. He was a God of rogues, thieves, beggars, vagabonds and murderers. He was a God of Honor amongst even what some considered the lowest of man, and the respect they deserved as men. 

He was a God of dogs with their heads bowed low, growling and snarling in barely restrained aggression, the blinders of loyalty separating them from the weapons it’s brother’s had become. 

He was a God who it was said disasters traveled in his wake, tragedies that existed not because it wasn’t done right, but because it couldn’t be done right.

Such was the difference between a mistake and a tragedy. 

He was—a passable farmer. He with fire in his eyes and burning touches tilled the land and turned the soil. Buried his large knuckled fingers into the dark black of it and pictured a phoenix rising from ashes as he planted each seed into the earth. He was not like the other Gods, never had been, he might not have followers, but he found he didn’t need them, not so long as the fire still raged or lingered, not so long as he still had believers. People who wanted more than anything to be protected, he was at heart, a protector. A guardian, an avenging destruction. 

The Irish family he met had taken a look at the man wandering half dazed into their cornfield and staring at the flames of a brush fire like it offered him salvation and had taken him in. They’d sheltered him and clothed him, and fed him, and in his way he repaid them in the only way he could think to. He worked their fields and he urged for growth and beckoned the hot rays of the sun off of their sweat covered necks.

And as was his way disaster followed him, trailed after him, that loyal dog one half step away from becoming the weapon everyone feared. He wasn’t there when the farm set fire, wasn’t there to part the flames and suffocate the light and the heat. He wasn’t there even to watch his believers burn. And so he left, once again, traveling like the souls he was content to watch over. 

Though there was one soul not under his protection.

When Mick Rory met Lisa Snart he burned for a moment, the embers of his marrow flaring, because this child? She had the way about her, criminal, traveler, loyal, disaster weaved through her past, his by rights, and yet he could see the mark of another on her very soul. Could see the cold encasing her at a glance, and he frowned, Cold had always been impetuous, arrogant, but even now? After all these years, had he not withered as all others had? 

His question was answered when he saw Cold again, for the first time in years unknown. He didn’t look the same, sure, he had the same ice blue eyes, the same smirk, the haughty lift of his brow as if daring for an objection, that was all the same, but where once his power of ice and cold had swirled around him like a mantle he had barely a flicker of his old strength. And a parka instead of a cloak, though Mick was willing to bet (not the best idea against the god of chance) that the parka was about the size of that old cloak.   
They didn’t argue over the girl. Though Cold placed her behind him, a clear indication she was under his protection, as if Mick couldn’t read the mark on the girl’s soul with his own two eyes. He wasn’t slow, nor had he ever been. They went to a diner, it was brightly lit and not up to health code standards, the red vinyl of the seats were cracked and the table top sticky but the coffee was hot and the milkshake the girl shared with Cold practically monstrous. 

The girl—Lisa, as she was known couldn’t be much out of her childhood years, turned wide eyes on him—a con he could tell. And she leveled him with a grin one part sharp, the edge almost as clean as Cold’s own and one part mischievous, and a part of Mick was tugged toward her.

“So what are you God of?” it was blunt, directly to the point, and Mick smiled at her, matched her fierce grin with one of his own. 

“Fire. Disasters.” He met her eyes squarely. “Criminals.” He chuckled briefly, “you.”

Cold’s voice snapped out like the first harsh gust of winter wind. “Not anymore.” 

Mick laughed, warmth pooling in his gut, swirling through his body, for someone so frozen he had a fire in him, Cold did.  
“Just because you’ve claimed her doesn’t mean she isn’t still under my protection as well, she shows the signs.” He smirked at cold, “so do you.”

“And you mine, but no God can follow another, we can’t give eachother life, nor can we share believers, that’s the job of humans. They reach and they grow, they gobble up the old traditions and beliefs like children in candy stores, greedy sticky little hands swallowing them whole and leaving us forgotten and unwanted in their wake. God’s can die, and we shall, one day.” Cold looks at his Lisa, puts one pale hand to mix with her chocolate curls, “one day so soon I may even have to leave her.” 

It’s not in Mick’s nature to watch this with solemn eyes, it’s not who he is, he is dynamic as fire, ever changing, but for his burning heart. So he watches, and he smiles, and he moves without thought to lay a burning searing kiss, a blessing to both their foreheads and he grins, savage, and wild, and says. “There are many types of belief, and many types of Worship.”

Cold’s eyes flash at him from mere inches away, they’re so different, and so close to being the same, “there’s not many of us left.” Cold’s grin is dangerous, icicles hanging like the fangs of a wide engulfing mouth, “join us. We’ll become new gods of this modern age. Together, maybe, we can adapt. We can survive.”

“Mick.”

He grinned, and placed a single hand on Cold’s, flicked his eyes to look at the girl beside him, and was pleased to see her staring back at him, judgment in her eyes. He’d need to prove himself. Cold had chosen well, very well indeed. 

“Leonard.”

-

The first time Leonard initiates contact is after a successful heist, they’ve stolen a diamond the size of Mick’s fist, and they’re high off of the adrenaline, the power coursing through their veins. The cops are searching for them, frantic and wild with the time crunch of statistics, they know their window for likely capture is closing, and that desperate hunt is feeding power into their veins. The angry guards, filled with rage, the rumors spreading out like wild fire among the underground, the awe that jolts through them like lightning down their spines. 

There is a heartbeat in this, and they are very much alive.

Their mouths crush together, wet, slick, and so determined as to be violent, tongues glide over teeth and teeth sink into lips, they all but claw at each other, pushing and pulling and shoving the other as they like. Mick is pinned to the wall, one hand tangled in Len’s sweater, fingers inching below the line of his waist, cold skin warming beneath his hands.   
This is the first, but certainly not the last Len worships Mick’s body, it doesn’t feed life into his veins the way the other’s do but it makes his eyes slam shut and his heart stutter in his chest. Leonard isn’t the only one to fall to his knees, and Mick’s altar has always been burnished gold and encrusted in gems, melted and burning and he does the same to Leonard, scalds him with his hands and coils him tight, burns away his layers until he’s an exposed nerve, before he coats him back over with gentle touches.   
The wild fire and the hearth. 

-

They become Supervillains, because of course they do. Lisa has long since gone on her own, a whispered prayer brushing across their minds more than once a day as she remembers them fondly. They are her God’s and they will never stop looking after her. Criminals weren’t enough, the awe, the urban legends, none of it compared to what they needed, they must become modern gods, these people who worship in money and points, at sports arenas and shopping malls, it’s not enough that they be Old Gods, they must become something different, something better. So, when a child of lightning is claimed, speed and electricity running through their blood, of course, they stand up to fight him, they force him into the light so that they too are exposed. 

God of Survivors, Leonard never planned to fade away, curled up in the void from where he came.


End file.
